“I haven’t made up my mind,” I told him. “Any little part.”
Kristy ran to us then, and pulled at my elbow. “Stace! Everyone’s here! We’re all in the front row. Come sit with us…. Oh, hi, Sam,” she added, as if she’d just noticed her brother.
Some guy I didn’t know (Brian maybe) called to Sam, so I went off with Kristy. “See you later, Stace!” said Sam.
I followed Kristy to a section of the front row. Sure enough, the entire BSC was sitting there. Even Mary Anne.
“Mary Anne!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I didn’t expect to be here,” she replied. “I am here for moral support only. This is as close as I get to the stage. Did everyone hear me?”
“Mary Anne,” said Kristy. “Chill out.”
I sat next to Claud, near the end of the row. Presently, Mr. Cheney, one of the teachers, stepped to the center of the stage. “May I have your attention, please? I am Mr. Cheney, the director of Peter Pan. If you are here to audition for the play, please take a seat in the front of the auditorium.”
During the next few minutes, Mr. Cheney organized the chaos and explained how the auditions would work. I paid attention to him, breathing deeply in an attempt to relax. The younger children, he said, were going to audition first. That made sense, since most of them already could not hold still, and they’d only been at SMS for a few minutes.
“All right. Kids ten and under, please come to the stage.”
After a brief stampede, the stage was crowded with elementary school kids. I realized I knew about half of them, mostly from baby-sitting. When they were holding as still as they were able, Mr. Cheney said, “We need you younger kids to play the parts of the Lost Boys, the Indians, and Michael Darling. Girls may be Indians and Lost Boys, but we do need a boy to play Michael. It is —”
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” called a high voice, and one of the kids wriggled out of the crowd and stood at Mr. Cheney’s feet.
It was Karen Brewer. Kristy looked like she wanted to crawl under her seat.
“Excuse me, sir?” said Karen. “What about Tinker Bell?”
“What about her?” asked Mr. Cheney.
“I want to be her.”
“But Tinker Bell isn’t a character. We simulate her … I mean, we, um, we’ll just make … fairy sounds to show that Tink is around.”
“But I want to be Tink! I WANT TO WEAR A FAIRY PRINCESS COSTUME! I WANT TO —”
Kristy decided she better rescue poor Mr. Cheney. In a flash she was running across the stage. “Sorry,” she said breathlessly as she grabbed Karen by the hand and led her to the back of the crowd of kids. While she talked to her sister, Mr. Cheney and Ms. Halliday divided the children into two groups. (Ms. Halliday is a gym teacher.) Mr. Cheney helped one group memorize a short scene in the play. Ms. Halliday taught the other group a dance routine. After awhile, the groups would switch places. Meanwhile, a third teacher, Mr. Drubek, handed scripts to us older kids so we could learn the lines for the parts we were interested in. I was about to raise my hand and ask, “What if we don’t know which part to read for?” when Mr. Drubek said, “If any of you is undecided, please learn a page of Peter Pan’s lines after the ‘I’ve Got to Crow’ number in Scene One. And if you have a question, just ask me.”
I flipped through Scene One until I found the spot Mr. Drubek meant, and I read a couple of pages. Meanwhile, Kristy had calmed Karen down and sent her to join one of the groups of children. For quite a while the auditorium was filled with odd sounds — kids murmuring to themselves or humming the songs they planned to sing, and (onstage) a lot of stamping and jumping from the kids working with Ms. Halliday. Before I knew it, though, the teachers were ready to begin the actual auditions.
The auditorium fell silent. Mr. Cheney consulted a clipboard. “Matt Braddock!” he called, and two kids stepped to the front of the stage.
They were eight-year-old Matt and his older sister Haley. My friends and I sit for them a lot. I knew why Haley was with Matt. Matt is profoundly deaf and communicates using sign language. Haley was going to interpret for her brother.
Haley introduced herself to Mr. Cheney. Then she said, “Matt is deaf. He can’t talk so he can’t sing. But he’s a good dancer. Please could he try out for something without talking? Is there some character who doesn’t have to say any lines?”
“Of course,” replied Mr. Cheney. “No problem.” Then he asked Haley to ask Matt to look angry, then excited, then scared, and so forth. Matt was a pro. (And no wonder. Sign language is very expressive.)
“Thank you,” said Mr. Cheney finally, and he grinned at Matt. Then he consulted his clipboard again. “Karen Brewer.”
When Karen ran to the front of the stage and Mr. Cheney saw who she was, he turned slightly pale. Then he recovered himself. “Have you learned the part?” he asked her. (He managed to smile.)
“Yup.”
Karen read the part with Mr. Cheney. When they had finished, she said, “Want to see how I can be a fairy?”
“Well —” began Mr. Cheney.
Karen didn’t wait for an answer. She hopped around the stage while Mr. Cheney turned desperately toward Kristy. And Kristy rescued him again. This time she picked Karen up, carried her offstage, and made Karen sit in her lap while the auditions continued.
Mallory’s brothers and sisters took their turns. So did David Michael. So did Buddy Barrett and Jake Kuhn and Myriah Perkins and Hannie and Linny Papadakis and Nancy Dawes and a bunch of other kids my friends and I sit for.
I wondered if Mr. Cheney got as tired as I did of hearing those same lines spoken over and over and over. Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, Mr. Cheney said, “Thank you, kids. Ms. Halliday and I will watch you dance now. In your groups. Group one, please.”
Kristy finally released Karen, saying, “No fairy stuff, is that clear?” Then she returned to my friends and me. We sat forward in our seats and watched the dancers eagerly. We watched Buddy, who never missed a step. We watched Karen, who showed off, ending her steps with flourishes and hand gestures. And we watched Jackie Rodowsky, our walking disaster, stumble from the beginning to the end of the routine. At least he had read well — very well. I hoped that would make up for his two left feet. I knew he wanted to be in the play.
By the time the little kids were finished, I had nearly forgotten that I would soon be up on that stage auditioning. But I snapped to attention when Mr. Cheney dismissed the little kids. Sometime later, when he called, “Stacey McGill,” I nearly had a heart attack.
As the little kids were leaving the stage and finding their parents in the back of the auditorium, Mr. Cheney said, “Auditions for smaller parts first, bigger parts later.” He was talking to those of us still waiting to perform. “If you are prepared with a dance routine and a song, fine. If not, please see Ms. Halliday. Everyone must read, dance, and sing today so we can see the full range of your talents.”
I watched the kids who surrounded Ms. Halliday then. Thank goodness I wasn’t one of them. I was prepared. After reading for the part of Peter I was going to perform a dance I had choreographed myself and sing “I’m Flying.” I had learned the entire song, even though I knew Mr. Cheney wouldn’t need to hear all of it.
Let’s see. I could talk forever about the auditions, but I better just give you the highlights. I’ll start with my BSC friends. The first one of us to face Mr. Cheney was Stacey, who looked kind of shaky. But I have to admit that when she read her lines she was good. Very good. Her song was good, too. (She sang the first few lines of “Mack the Knife,” which was strange, but Mr. Cheney didn’t seem to mind.) And then she said she was going to perform Ms. Halliday’s dance routine later, along with the rest of the kids who hadn’t prepared in advance. After that she rushed off the stage.
Kristy did pretty much the same thing, except that she read even better than Stacey did, and she sang part of “I Won’t Grow Up” from Act II.
“Good going,” I told her
as she returned to her seat. “Nice breath control. And you looked at the audience a lot. Just try not to tense up your muscles so much. It makes you seem nervous.”
Kristy gave me a funny glance. “I don’t think anyone will be able to tell once I’m inside the sheepdog costume,” she said.
Sheesh. Touchy.
The pirates auditioned next. Among them were Logan and Sam. They both read for the part of this pirate named Bill Jukes. I wondered how badly they both wanted to be Jukes. Because if Logan’s heart was set on it, he was going to be disappointed.
I leaned around Kristy and said, “Stacey! Stacey!” in a loud whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Sam is great. He’ll get the part of Jukes for sure. No contest. He’s good, Stace. I didn’t know there was so much talent right here in little Stoneybrook.” Not that I’d ever lived anywhere except in small towns, but you know what I mean. I leaned around in the other direction and peered at Mary Anne. I have to tell you that Logan’s audition had not gone too well. He spoke his lines in a loud, flat monotone, barely pausing at commas or periods. He seemed to have forgotten the purpose of punctuation. His singing had not been much better. He could carry a tune okay, but that was about all. He kept messing up the words to “Wendy.” Instead of singing, “We have a mother! At last we have a mother!” he sang, “We have another! At least we have another!” And for, “Wendy’s waiting at the door, we won’t be lonely anymore,” he sang, “Wind is wading on the floor, we won’t be lovely anymore.” Now does that even make sense? I could only hope that Logan would make up for it during the dancing later. Maybe he would be, like, this incredible show dancer.
On the stage Mr. Cheney was clapping his hands for attention. “Who is going to audition for Tiger Lily?” he asked.
“Oh, my lord,” I heard Dawn whisper. “I don’t know if I can go through with this.” She glanced around the auditorium, looking for Cokie Mason, I guess. The older BSC members had told Mal and me what had happened during their lunch period last Tuesday, but I thought that was forgotten. I thought Dawn had decided not to let Cokie bother her.
“Dawn! Get up on that stage!” hissed Kristy. “If you don’t, you will never forgive yourself.” She paused. “You will die wondering, ‘Could I have been Tiger Lily? Could I?’ You could blow a career on the stage if you don’t get moving. Just forget about Cokie.”
Sometimes it’s a good thing Kristy is so pushy. Dawn jumped to her feet. She marched up the steps to the stage. She never looked back. And she was the first to try out for Tiger Lily.
Dawn was great. She was fantastic. She was so much better than my friends and I had imagined that we just kept looking at each other with raised eyebrows and open mouths. She read her lines, she sang a verse of the “Ugg-a-Wugg” song … and then she danced. I was sure she was going to dance with Ms. Halliday’s group later, but instead she performed this very sweet waltz. She performed it by herself, but she did it so realistically I could have sworn she was actually dancing with a partner.
Okay. That was the good part about the auditions for Tiger Lily.
The bad part was that Cokie performed just as well as Dawn did. Mr. Cheney was going to have a tough choice to make.
I looked at my watch. I looked at the list of parts kids would try out for before Mr. Cheney was ready to see the Peter Pans. I would not be on that stage for a while. But I was not nervous. I was well-prepared and I knew it. Ever since Monday I had practically been living in Neverland. My parents had found this old record album of the songs from Peter Pan and I had listened to it endlessly. I had watched the video of Mary Martin playing Peter Pan in the TV adaptation of the stage play. Actually, I had watched it nine times. This was for two reasons. One, I was studying Mary Martin’s dancing. Two, Squirt suddenly decided “Pan” was his new favorite video, and he kept asking to watch it. By asking I mean that he would plant himself in front of the nearest grown-up at our house and say, “Pan, Pan, Pan, PAN, PAN!” until the grown-up dashed for the VCR in order to save his or her eardrums.
I felt as if I had been sitting in the front row of the auditorium for a year when Mr. Cheney finally said, “And now, tryouts for the part of Peter Pan. And the rest of you, remember — don’t go anywhere. Ms. Halliday still needs to see most of you dance. After that, we’re going to call back about ten of you to hear you one final time. We’ll make our decisions in several days. The parts will be posted by the office here at school, but everyone will be notified by phone as well. Okay, Peter Pans. Up on stage!”
I bolted out of my seat and reached the stage before anyone else did. “Hi, Mr. Cheney, remember me?” I said. “I’m Jessi Ramsey.”
Mr. Cheney is not one of my teachers, but he got to know all the BSC members pretty well on a memorable school trip. During a time of extra bad winter weather all of SMS went to this ski lodge in Vermont for a week. The lodge was gigantic, and other school kids were there, too. One was a group of elementary children from Maine who ended up needing baby-sitters while they were there. (It’s a long story.) Anyway, my friends and I volunteered, which impressed the SMS teachers, especially Mr. Cheney.
“Oh, Jessi. Yes, of —”
“And I’m the dancer, remember?” I interrupted him. “I take ballet at the school in Stamford. I’ve played Clara in The Nutcracker and I’ve starred in Coppélia and Swan Lake and Sleeping Beauty.”
“Thank you, Jessi,” said Mr. Cheney. “All right, please —”
“Plus, I’ve —”
“Jessi, a résumé isn’t necessary. Are you ready to read?”
“Yes, sir. And to sing and dance. I’ve choreographed a routine.”
“For now, please just read.”
I read. And I was good. Maybe not as good as I would be when I danced, but I was good. When I finished I sang “I’m Flying,” which also went well, although I thought I saw Grace Blume out in the audience with her hands over her ears, but what would you expect from a mortal enemy of the BSC? Anyway, so maybe I’m not exactly an operatic singer, but I was going to make up for everything when I danced. Which was now. At last I could demonstrate my dancing ability.
I had arranged a number with a lot of leaps and tour jetés and things in it so Mr. Cheney and Ms. Halliday would be able to imagine how I would look when I was flying over the stage on wires. That’s how they do it, you know. I mean, that’s how they simulate the flying in Peter Pan. Peter, Wendy, Michael, and John are attached to strong, practically invisible wires in the scenes in which they fly. They can go from walking across the stage to flying over it in one smooth movement. Then, still connected to the wires, of course, they can swoop and glide and even dance in the air.
Anyway, I finished my performance and turned hopefully toward Mr. Cheney, but all he said was, “Thank you, Jessi. Madeline Carver, you’re next.” So I walked into the wings and watched the other Peter Pans, who included two boys. They were good, but not great.
When Mr. Cheney had seen the Peter Pans, Ms. Halliday worked with the dancers for awhile, and then came the announcement I was waiting to hear. All us kids had returned to our seats. Mr. Cheney faced us from his place on the stage and said, “Okay. Thank you very much, everybody. You’ve been wonderfully patient. You, too!” he called for the benefit of the few parents who were seated in the back rows. “Now would the following people please stay behind for another hour or so. Franklin Enell, Dawn Schafer, Sam Thomas, Kristy Thomas,” (he was interrupted here by a burst of cheering) “Jennifer Abrams, Stacey McGill, Cokie Mason,” (more cheering) “Roger Bucknell, Alan Gray, and Rick Chow.”
Dawn clutched at my elbow. “Is this good or bad, Jessi?” she squeaked. “He called my name. Is that good or bad?”
“Oh, it’s very good,” I assured her. I smiled. “Mr. Cheney wants to see you again. It means you impressed him.”
“Oh.” Dawn smiled back, but then she frowned. “He didn’t call your name, Jessi.”
I patted her arm. “I know. Don’t worry about it.” Of course Mr. Cheney hadn�
�t called my name. He’d already made up his mind about the role of Peter Pan. I left the auditorium feeling pleased and confident.
I was sitting in my eighth-period class with Grace Blume when we heard the news. Grace and I manage to have more than the usual number of classes together every year. We arrange this in September. We wait until we receive our class schedules. Then we compare them. And then we start talking to our teachers, our guidance counselors, and even the principal, if necessary. We say things like, “You know, I’m really my freshest in the morning. I’m sure I’d do much better in math if I could switch from sixth period to second period. To Mr. Zorzi’s second-period math class.” By the time we’ve finished switching we usually have three or four classes together. This year we have five. It is a record. We are proud of it.
Anyway, we were sitting in the back row of our social studies class passing notes back and forth about what’s going on with General Hospital, the soap we started watching last year. If one of us has to miss it, the other takes notes. We try to catch each other up during school, before the next episode comes on. I had passed Grace a note, she’d passed one back with a question, I’d answered it, and she was working on another question when an alien note appeared on my desk. It had come from Ellie Szilagyi who sits right in front of me. Ellie’s not a good friend or anything, but she’s okay. I think she would like to hang around with Grace and me, but so far we haven’t let her. Maybe when her complexion clears up.
Ellie’s note said: The parts have been posted!!! There on the wall by the office. Try to beet the crowd!!!!!
I was so excited I didn’t even bother to correct Ellie’s spelling. I just passed the note to Grace. After she read it we were both so excited we didn’t even bother to write down the homework assignment. What we did instead was very quietly organize our books and backpacks so that when the bell rang we were immediately able to leap to our feet and run out of the classroom. That was how we managed to be two of the very first SMS students to see who had earned which roles in the play.
Starring the Baby-sitters Club! (9780545633208) Page 3